Out of the payday songs of steam shovels,
Out of the wages of structural iron rivets,
The living lighted skyscrapers tell it now as a name,
Tell it across miles of sea blue water, gray blue land:

So between the Great Lakes,
The Grand De Tour, and the Grand Prairie,
The living lighted skyscrapers stand,

Singing a soft moaning song: I am a child, a belonging.
How should the wind songs of a windy city go?
Singing in a high wind the dirty chatter gets blown
away on the wind — the clean shovel,
the clean pickax,
lasts.
It is easy for a child to get breakfast and pack off
to school with a pair of roller skates,
buns for lunch, and a geography.
Riding through a tunnel under a river running backward,
to school to listen . . . how the Pottawattamies . . .
and the Blackhawks . . . ran on moccasins . . .
between Kaskaskia, Peoria, Kankakee, and Chicago.